


ivy

by thesurielships



Series: evermore [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, but like suspend your disbelief a little lmao, inspired by ivy, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: Oh, goddamnMy pain fits in the palm of your freezing handTaking mine, but it's been promised to anotherOh, I can'tStop you putting roots in my dreamlandMy house of stone, your ivy growsAnd now I'm covered in youAnd I'm covered in you
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: evermore [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058630
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	ivy

**_in from the snow, your touch brought forth an incandescent glow_ **

Winter was a dreadful season in Springtime, which Feyre always found quite ironic. However, it was a fact she had grown to treasure as she watched her mother and Tamlin go to the stone every day, keeping her father better company than he’d ever had when he was alive.

Feyre smirked as flurries of snow hit the glass windows of the library. The howling wind was like music to her ears, a heady promise of the suffering of her two least favorite people in the world.

_Ah, it really is the little things._

Suddenly, a rock slammed against the window, jolting her out of her content musings. Her hand flew to her heart, reigning in the sudden panic. Another rock hit the glass, then another, and Feyre jerked the window open before a fourth could effectively break it and ruin her only refuge in Springtime.

She scowled down at the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t a door, sir.”

His answering grin was cocky, self-assured and way too attractive for a stranger drenched in snow and shooting rocks at unsuspecting windows.

“But you answered all the same.”

Her fists clenched, longing to make contact with his perfect face, but she remembered he was out in the snow and she was inside, near a blazing fire. Instead, she shot him a saccharine smile. “May I ask who you are?”

“I am freezing.”

A dry laugh escaped her, surprising her. It had been a while since she had laughed at all. “That does not answer my question.”

He shrugged impossibly wide shoulders, and Feyre was momentarily side tracked by the way his riding clothes hugged his powerful figure.

“Where is your horse?” she belatedly asked, after she had meticulously perused him.

He tilted his head, a knowing smile curving his lips. “In the stables.”

“Are you ever going to give me a straight answer?”

“Only if you let me in.”

She rolled her eyes, and was about to shoo him away when the wind picked up and snow blasted inside the room. She trembled in her thin gown, and dared a glance at the handsome stranger. His teeth were chattering.

Her hesitation must have shown on her face, because he was soon jumping up, offering her his hands. She didn’t let herself think about it before she grabbed them and pulled.

He was heavy and his hands were indeed freezing, but between her wheezing efforts and the way he gracefully scaled the wall, they managed to get him up and through the window before they both fell into a heaving heap on the floor.

“So?” Feyre inquired, still panting.

He sat up and crossed his legs. “I am Rhysand.”

He offered no title, no last name, yet she knew exactly who he was.

Tamlin’s long sworn enemy and diplomatic friend.

Surprise and delight glimmered in his eyes. Eyes she could now see were a lovely shade of violet. “You know who I am.”

“Who doesn’t?” she shot back defiantly as she stood up, straightening her dress. 

“Ah,” his eyes followed her as she closed the window and checked on the fire. “My reputation precedes me.”

“Indeed.”

“So does yours, Miss Feyre Archeron.”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Indeed.”

He chuckled. “A woman of few words, I see.”

“And a man who insists on sitting on the ground when a lady is standing next to him.”

“Forgive me,” he said unapologetically as he rose to his full height, towering over her and suddenly closer than she had expected. Her breath caught. “I tend to forget my manners.”

****

**_my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine, but it's been promised to another_ **

The next time Feyre saw Rhysand, he strode in through the doors of the library. He was staying at Springtime manor as Tamlin’s guest, awaiting the upcoming house party. She was surprised to find him here as he had all but pretended she didn’t exist the past few days.

“Is this what you call character growth?” she asked from her perch near the fire, closing her book around her finger to mark the page she was reading.

His steps were languid but assured as he prowled towards her, and Feyre’s heart rate picked up. Anticipation pooled like hot liquid in her gut, and she reflexively licked her lips. His eyes tracked the motion, irises darkening. His steps stuttered for a brief second before his insufferably irreverent smirk was back on lips that had felt sinfully soft on the back of her hand. Customary greeting kisses were dreadfully brief.

“Character growth,” he repeated, “is what is going to hit you, Feyre darling.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the unexpected endearment. Heat rushed to her face and she scowled at the cause of the troubles of her bodily functions.

“I am not leaving this spot.”

“Not even for an adventure?” he asked, gesturing to the book in her lap. _The adventures of Tom Sawyer._

There was no stopping her curiosity, so she didn’t even try. “What adventure?”

His only answer was a mysterious grin, and soon Feyre was riding astride a magnificent horse, her hair whipping around her and her shouts of glee resonating in the forest surrounding the manor.

She had always wanted to explore it, but Tamlin was always too busy or it was too cold, or her mother needed to visit her father’s grave, again. The Cauldron only knew there was no love lost between her parents, and Feyre wondered what the real reason behind these daily visits was. She didn’t care enough to find out, and refused to join them even when they asked.

Why would she, when it was the perfect opportunity for sneaking off?

“Where are we going?”

“To the top of the world.”

She snorted at his cheesy reply, but soon enough, they stopped at the edge of a cliff overlooking sprawling woods of snow covered pines. Feyre’s eyes went wide, drinking in the details she hoped she could one day get right on canvas.

“Doesn’t this beat books?” came Rhysand’s cocky question.

She gave him a smirk. “Barely.”

He kept quiet as she marveled at the beauty unfurling in front of her. From her vantage point, she could see kilometers upon kilometers of dense woods. Snow gilded the majestic pine trees in glittering silver, and the occasional bird squawked in delight as it flew overhead.

Her shoulders loosened and a wide smile broke free. She really felt like she was on top of the world.

That must be why she was intrigued and all too willing to follow Rhysand as he guided her to their next destination, though she doubted anything could surpass this.

“It has just occurred to me that I am a very easy target right now,” Feyre remarked as he signaled for her to slow her horse.

“Target for what, darling?”

“Murder,” she supplied helpfully. “Or maybe something more romantic. Like the ravishing of a maiden,” she mused aloud, her gaze carefully trained on his face.

He rolled his eyes, the smallest smile pulling one side of his lips upward. “You seem to be the one with ulterior motives.”

She shrugged.

“Hardly. You –” The words died on her tongue as her eyes fell on a pocket of swirling starlight, tucked right there into the icy muddy ground.

“What’s that?” she breathed quietly, afraid to shatter the illusion.

“A pond.”

She whipped her head towards a smirking Rhysand. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you by any chance… Fae?”

He blinked, then threw his head back and roared. Feyre couldn’t stop her smile as he laughed himself to tears.

“What kind of books have you been reading, darling?”

She raised her chin. “Good ones.”

He shook his head, his smile tainted with surprise and disbelief. He jumped off his horse and tied it to a nearby tree. Feyre peered at the ground uneasily. She could mount a horse just fine, but she always had trouble getting down.

Rhysand offered her a hand silently, without teasing.

She accepted it, with no comment on his freezing hands.

Incandescent warmth spread out from their twined hands and seeped through her ribs to pour into her chest. Rhysand was staring at her in wonder, and she pulled away before she did something reckless.

Like ravishing him.

As if he was privy to her depraved thoughts, he barely turned around before he started to undress. His shirt, then his breeches fell to the ground, and the warmth veered south as she beheld his muscled back.

“It’s so warm,” he purred as he stepped into the water. “Legend has it Hell is just under here.”

Feyre gave his back an unimpressed look.

“Or maybe it’s my magic.” He peeked over his shoulder just as her eyes caught on the drops of water racing down his neck. “Are you just going to stand and stare?”

Her spine straightened at the challenge in his voice. She undressed slowly, putting on a show, but he averted his eyes, suddenly a gentleman.

Feyre’s dress joined his clothes on the muddy ground, and she joined him in the hot waters.

In a rare moment of clarity, she realized this was no feat of magic, and no work of Hell.

The water was boiling from the fire blazing under her skin.

**_he's in the room, your opal eyes are all I wish to see_ **

If she had to accept another stranger’s congratulations on her proposal, Feyre was going to lose her sanity.

It hadn’t been three months since her father’s death, yet her mother thought a ball would be a good idea. What better way to announce her engagement to Lord Tamlin, duke of Springtime, and bore extraordinaire?

The ton didn’t comment on the rushed festivities. Just like they didn’t comment on their living together or his lingering touches when they still weren’t married. They were willing to overlook anything for their favorite, after all.

They had even managed to forget that Feyre had rejected him for only a thousand times before her father’s death. Before her mother accepted for her, hoping her last unmarried daughter would ensnare a rich, titled husband to fund her extravagant widow lifestyle.

Feyre breathed through her nose, clenching her teeth so hard she was surprised people bought her sorry excuse of a smile. Tamlin’s hand was a heavy weight on her shoulder as he paraded her from guest to guest, showing off his win.

Little did he know, he had won nothing at all.

Even in the crowded room, even with him by her side, her eyes were drawn to Rhysand like a moth to a flame. He was leaning against a corner, looking all dark and broody as he drank her future husband’s brandy.

“She is also an excellent pianist,” Tamlin’s remark registered in her dazed mind and Feyre smiled at the old lady he was talking to.

“I only believe what I witness,” the old lady’s smile was cunning.

Dread fell like heavy bricks in Feyre’s gut.

“It would be my pleasure,” she curtsied before making her way confidently to the piano. She sat with her back straight and her fingers primly poised on the white keys.

Rhysand tilted his head imperceptibly, and she shot him a secret smile before she started the melody.

The ton _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed, her betrothed preened, and she felt a savage kind of delight as she played the song Rhys had taught her on one of their late night escapades.

Fingers brushing and violet eyes twinkling were all she could see as the music seemed to take a life of its own, racing towards its roaring crescendo.

Then sudden silence. And loud applause.

In the glory of the moment, she didn’t notice Rhysand approach her until he was bowing over her hand and asking for a dance she pretended to reluctantly accept.

That night, the ton had to overlook the scandal of a betrothed woman waltzing with another man five times in a row.

**_oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland_ **

“You didn’t mention you’re a painter.”

Feyre jumped, deflecting her paintbrush just in time before paint sprayed on her morning’s work.

“You know, Rhysand, when someone tells you to make yourself at home, they seldom mean it literally.”

He smiled that mischievous smile that set her heart racing and her core aflame.

“I knew you liked the scenery,” he said, gesturing to her rendition of the pool of starlight.

She shrugged. “It’s a wonder I remember what it looked like. I wasn’t looking.”

He opened his mouth, outraged, but then he caught the coy look she sent him from under her eyelashes. He swallowed audibly.

She put her brush down and stood slowly. She took one step towards him. He mirrored her movement, and soon they met in the middle.

“Were you thinking of your book?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I was... distracted.”

Her gaze snagged on his mouth. Blood rushed in her ears, her breathing growing labored as all her focus honed in on his tongue licking his lips.

“I… You… I should…” his voice was flustered. The smooth and suave Rhysand of Nightsky turned into a blushing mess before her eyes. “My cousin is calling me. I will see you at dinner, Miss.”

As Rhysand all but ran away from her, Feyre let her imagination run free. For the first time since her father’s death, she let herself dream of a happy future. Of a future that was wholly and thoroughly hers.

**_spring breaks loose, but so does fear_ **

When Feyre found a note hidden in the pages of the book she was currently reading, she wasn’t the least bit surprised.

_‘Meet me where the spirit meets the bones.’_

Stars were her only guide as she sneaked out of the mansion, her heavy cloak unnecessary in the warm night.

She hadn’t made it past the gilded gates when strong hands plucked her away from the dirt trail and pulled her against a deliciously warm chest. Feyre melted instantly.

“The graveyard, Rhys?”

His chuckle tickled the skin of her neck. “I was curious what all the fuss was about.”

“Knowing my mother – and Tamlin, too – they probably found some treasure hidden in a tomb somewhere, and they’re trying to sneakily bring it back.”

Rhys’ smile was fond as he twirled her around in his arms and settled his hands on the small of her back, beneath her cloak.

She yelped. “Your hands are freezing!”

He raised an eyebrow as if to say, _exactly_.

She scowled at him but nuzzled closer, inhaling his scent deeply.

The trees around the graveyard were rumored to be hollow. Indeed, the wind blowing through them played a melody that others may have found eerie, but that they gently swayed to.

“Spring is near,” Feyre addressed his chest, her voice soft.

“It is.”

A beat of silence.

“Why won’t you ask me to run?”

No answer came.

Feyre lifted her head so she could meet his eyes. “My wedding approaches, Rhysand.”

His throat bobbed. “I know.”

“Are you just going to watch me marry him? Bear him children?”

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

She jerked away from him as if he had burned her. “Oh my Gods, you are.”

Realization was swift and cruel and it cut her heart into a million little pieces. Everything clicked in her head, and she was such a _fool_.

“Was this just a game to you?” she asked, horrified. “Did it give you some sort of sick satisfaction to make your enemy’s bride fall in love with you?”

His eyes went wide at her hysterical confession.

“I should have known,” she muttered to herself as she turned away from him. She was such an idiot, and she couldn’t bear to look at his smug face.

His hand wrapped around her forearm and she paused.

“You deserve better, Feyre.”

She whirled on him. “Seriously? _That’s_ your excuse?” He flinched. “You think I am not aware of my own value? I chose you over Tamlin for a reason, you prick!” she poked his chest hard and his eyes flared.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What?” she screeched. She could not believe her own ears. That Rhysand would turn out to be so condescending… she must be a worse judge of character than she thought. “Then enlighten me. What’s this fatal flaw that makes you so utterly unloveable?”

His jaw clenched. Unclenched. Clenched again, and just when she thought he would not speak, he said in a voice so soft she thought she misheard him, “I am a bastard.”

“What?”

“My mother’s.”

Feyre could only stare.

“My father kept me to avoid scandal,” he continued, his tone flat and oddly detached. “And he wrote me out of his will the day I was born.”

She gaped at him.

“That is why I could never dare to proposition you, Feyre. Even before you were engaged.”

Feyre was pretty sure her brain was about one shock away from shutting down. “You knew me before?”

A small smile curved his lips. “Naturally.”

She sputtered. “What – How – ”

“I am penniless, and soon to be title less. There is nothing I can offer you but my heart.”

“You love me?” she breathed. It was the only important thing among all the nonsense he was spewing.

“I do,” he confirmed even as he let her go and stepped back, resignation clear in his face.

Feyre’s anger blazed anew. “You don’t love me, Rhysand,” she spat his name as if it was an insult. “If you did, you would fight for me.”

This time, he didn’t stop her as she left, every step heavier than the last.

**_it's the goddamn fight of my life, and you started it_ **

Rhysand really had a bad habit of taking things too literally. Feyre would have found this quirk endearing, if she wasn’t running barefoot through a clover field to reach him before he threw himself to his death.

Her mother had woken her up an hour before dawn, overjoyed at the prospect of a duke and a future earl dueling for her daughter’s hand.

Sure enough, three figures appeared on the horizon, just on the edge of the woods encircling the Springtime domain. Each was walking towards a different direction.

 _No, no, no_ , the duel had already started.

She picked up speed even though her feet bled and her lungs burned. She was almost there, only a few yards away when the shots rang out, bullets blazing in the dark.

Feyre reached Rhysand as he fell to the ground and she clutched him in her arms, blood seeping into her dress. Horror held her heart in an iron fist, and she struggled to breathe -

“Feyre, darling.”

Her eyes snapped to his face. The prick had the audacity to smile at her.

“You’re bleeding,” she hissed.

A wet laugh rasped out of his chest. “I know.”

She was wild with panic as she pushed at his clothes, trying to find the wound so she could do something, anything to stop the blood flow.

“Leave the loving exploration for our wedding night, darling.”

She shot him an incredulous look before resuming her exploration. His chest and stomach were clear. Her eyes dropped to his thighs. His pants were torn and blood dribbled from the shallowest bullet wound she had ever seen.

Relief slammed into her and she fell to the ground.

“What were you thinking?” she breathed, her voice thick with tears.

His eyes were swirling with so much love and adoration they took the breath right out of her lungs.

“That I was an idiot. That you are more than capable of making your own decisions, and if you decide to be with me, then it is an honor that I will fight for. If you will have me, Feyre, I’ll try every day to be worthy of you.”

Tears ran down her cheeks, and she turned on her side, reaching for his hand and entwining their fingers.

“You are an idiot,” she said, staring at his thumb as it brushed soothing strokes into the back of her hand. “You’re already worthy. And if you ever put yourself in harm’s way for me again, I will shoot you in the groin.”

“Duly noted.”

Distant sobs reached her. Far out on the field, her mother was hunched over a limp and bloody Tamlin.

“Well, that’ll give her another reason to go to the stone.”

Rhysand barked out a laugh. “Maybe that’s a habit we should start too, darling. Maybe we can find our own treasure, too.”

Feyre leaned over and brushed her lips against his. “I already found mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original plan was for Rhys to die in the end. God bless my fluffy, hopelessly romantic soul ahahahah


End file.
